


Broken

by LoLecter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anger, Crying, Emotional pain, Guilt, Hannigram - Freeform, Love, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Post-Season/Series 02, Screaming, Self-Hatred, Sobbing, Will break down, Will is a Mess, Will is broken, Will just needs Hannibal, implied abuse of alcohol, missing Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoLecter/pseuds/LoLecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has been out of the hospital for four months. He finally breaks down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> I was listenning to Broken by Amy Lee, thinking about Hannibal & Will and it happened. Very emotional and probably not totally in character, but I loved writing it.

Will had been out of the hospital for four months. The last time he had seen Hannibal Lecter was six months ago. Well, six months, sixteen days and nineteen hours to be more accurate, but who was counting. It was not like he spent all his time thinking about the psychiatrist. Not like he saw him everywhere or could constantly hear his voice in his head. Certainly not. And mostly he definitely didn’t feel like his chest had been cut open because of how much he missed him.

It was what he told himself anyway. To the therapist of the hospital he told nothing. To Alana and Freddie he simply lied. He didn’t work anymore and had no one else to worry about him so nobody noticed his degrading state. He was free to self destruct and drink all the alcohol he wanted. He didn’t remember the last time he had washed his clothes or the last day he had actually done something productive besides feeding his dogs. Even of them he didn’t take as good care as he used to. Sometimes when he felt really sad he would let Winston cuddle with him for a bit, but beside that he didn’t play with them or gave them any attention whatsoever. He just didn’t care anymore.

The only thing he cared about was to make it stop. Make it stop hurting so much. He was pretty sure you were not supposed to feel like your heart had been ripped off of your thoracic cage in this situation. You were not supposed to feel like that for a man who had tried to kill you and had killed three people you cared about. Not even counting the all the others he had hurt and ate in his life. No, he was not supposed to miss a man like that and yet he did. More than anything in the world. He wanted Hannibal back in his life more than he had ever wanted anything. It was pathetic and he was a horrible person for it, but he couldn’t help it. He had spent so much time screaming internally at himself to just stop. Stop thinking about him. Stop missing him. Stop loving him. It didn’t do anything. He couldn’t change how he felt no matter how much he hated himself for it.

He had come to appreciate the anger. At least when he was angry it didn’t hurt so much anymore. How could a human being need someone else so much? How? How did missing Hannibal felt so much worse than being bullied as a teenager, losing his father, being framed for murder by the person he trusted the most, being cut open by that same man or lose a girl he had considered like a daughter? It didn’t make sense and yet it was. Nothing he had felt in his life had been worse than this and he had had his fare share of suffering.

Will had never been a crier. He could shed some tears, but never even at his lowest had he sobbed or really bawled his eyes out. That had been before Hannibal of course. The first time he had genuinely sobbed in years had been while watching Abigail die for a second time. It had turned out to be only the first of many times in the months to come. It was mostly sobs without tears or just tears coming out of his eyes in endless stream that would not stop no matter what he did. Never in front of anyone though. Apparently his emotions could be controlled when he really needed it. Even his dogs were barely allowed to see him cry. He always sent them outside or avoided them when it happened. Crying so much had made Will realize he had not been missing much all those years when he was incapable of it. He didn’t like crying.

One thing he hated more however were the panic attack. They happened in average once a week. He didn’t know what he was so afraid of, but it seemed the ring of his phone, a letter or even an email made it difficult to breathe. There was a lot to be afraid of he supposed, but still it was not worth ending up in a fetal position on the floor feeling like he was dying every time. The thought that he had first was always:”Is is him?“  
If it was him did he want to talk to him? Ridiculous. Of course he wanted to. He could despise himself all he wanted it was still the truth. What would he want to say to him if it was even him? The two things that came to his mind the most when asking himself that were “I hate you” and “I miss you” So that didn’t help.

Could he deal with all the guilt and shame he would feel if he talked to the man and didn’t report it? If he somehow forgave him? He wasn’t sure and that terrified him. The last thing that would come to his mind before a panic attack was “What if it’s not him? What if it’s never him and I never see or speak to him again?”  
 That was mostly what would send him over the edge. He couldn’t stand to think he would never have him in his life again, but he couldn’t dare imagine having him in it either.

His last attack had been two days ago when Alana had called him to know how he was doing he assumed. He hadn’t been able to pick up since he had been having something that felt a lot like a heart attack on the floor. He had only seen the origin of the call later. This time it had left him more tired than usual and he hadn’t even finished two glass of whisky before falling asleep at nine. Of course he had still waked up three hours later after dreaming of Hannibal stabbing him, but he had gotten used to that. Sometimes if he drank enough he could sleep for six hours straight, but he had to inhale a lot of alcohol for that. Some blessed night he would also skip the nightmares and have what was the closest in had had in years to agreeable dreams. He dreamed of the serial killer taking him in his arms or kissing him instead of gutting him that terrible night. He also dreamed of being in bed with him, simply holding his body against his. The guilt he would feel waking up was predictably horrible, but he could numb it a little with alcohol.

Something he wished he would be able to do was scream. He had once told Alana that he was afraid if he started he wouldn’t be able to stop. It was not the reason he didn’t do it anymore. He was afraid of what he would say and of what emotions would come out. Even if he cried, sobbed without tears, panicked, and had once hurt his hand punching a mirror he had never truly broke down. All of that had always been ways to keep his emotions in check, numb the pain or reaction of his body he couldn’t control. He had never by choice let himself feel his emotions and tried to let them out. He had never let himself feel them completely for more than a couple of seconds and those times had been accident that had left him very scared to feel more. He preferred to be a zombie always hurting moderately than lose his mind and hurt more than there were words to describe it.

Hannibal would have probably told him it was futile to run from his emotions so much. They would catch him eventually and it would still hurt as much. He was just so tired of running and hurting. Tired of missing another human being so much it felt like he had lost a part of himself. Just so tired.

He was at his fourth glass of whisky when the phone rang interrupting his dark thought. No. Not again. He didn’t usually get more than one call every two weeks. He could have turned off his phones, but a part of him was terrified of doing that, terrified of missing the serial killer trying to join him. His brain automatically went to “What if it’s him this time?” and his heart started to beat faster. NO. Not again! Tears were already rolling on his face. He couldn’t handle another attack two days after the last one. When a sob almost escaped him he screamed in anger: “NO”

He violently threw his glass on the living room table and got to his cell phone in the kitchen. It was Alana again. He had never felt really angry at the woman in his life, but at this moment he felt like hitting her for almost causing another panic attack and mostly for not being Hannibal. The phone kept ringing and ringing, his anger growing and growing. After months of containing it he finally let out a long and furious scream as he threw the phone against the wall with all the force he had.  
“SHUT UP!”  
The remaining pieces were on the floor and the ringing had stopped now, but it didn’t stop him.  
“STOP IT! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!”  
He was shamelessly sobbing and crying at this point. His dogs were outside so they were not there to be scared of him screaming. Which they would have been had they been inside. In rage and despair he punched the wall hurting his hand again.

 He would have probably said he was speaking to no one had been asked, but the truth was that he was talking to Hannibal from then on. Begging him, half sobbing, half screaming:  
“MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE! PLEASE... MAKE IT STOP. I CAN’T... I CAN’T. IT’S TOO HARD”  
He clearly saw the serial killer in his head as he yelled, laying back on the wall.  
“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!”  
His last statement could have as well been a declaration of love. He said “hate” and it was truth that he hated the man, but only as much as he loved him. It was a lot easier to scream his hate than it was to admit his feeling.

Saying “I love you so much that it hurts and I hate being apart from you.” was definitely not an option or even something he was able to admit to himself most days.  
  
It was like a volcano had erupted inside of him. The pain was so strong he could barely breathe, barely speak anymore. Just sob and plead in incomplete sentences to a man who was not there.  
“I just... please... I need y... I need you... It hurt so much!”  
His voice gave up at the end. In a broken sob he whispered: “Hannibal” and his legs gave up, letting him slide to the ground. He had stopped thinking rationally. He was no more than a child begging for the pain to stop at this stage. Why couldn’t he be there? Why couldn’t he just come in and take him in his arms to hold him until it didn’t hurt anymore? Kiss him until he forgot what shame or guilt was and he was free to love him as much as he wanted? Or even simply call him? Let him hear his voice. Talk to him. He would have listened to him talk about the weather or the way he had killed his last victim without complaining at this point. It was how desperate he was.

 After a couple of minutes his sobs slowly transformed into little hick up, making him feel like a kid again. The waves of pain were still coming inside of him like tsunami, but the biggest ones had passed. Or he was just getting used to it. He didn’t know really. Tears were still streaming down his face and his head was starting to hurt. As a child you would always feel slightly sleepy after you had cried really hard. He didn’t exactly feel like that. More like exhausted and empty. He let himself fell on the floor in a little ball, closing his eyes. He heard the dogs barking outside and decided they would stay there. It was not cold outside so they would survive. He didn’t have the energy or the will to get up. He just wanted to lie there and never move again.

The thought crossed his mind that he would have to buy a new cell phone in case Hannibal did decide to call him. He wasn’t sure he had his house line number after all. Being able to think that without feeling angry at himself was proof of how exhausted he was. His break down had probably helped him even if he would never think of it that way.

The last thing he thought about while falling asleep on the floor of his kitchen was Hannibal Lecter with that look he had in his eyes sometimes when they were together. He looked at him like he was the most beautiful and extraordinary thing he had ever seen. The imaginary man smiled at him and suddenly everything felt like it was going to be ok. For a moment, he didn’t feel as broken.

**Author's Note:**

> I almost made myself cry writing it so if anyone else get emotional reading this please tell me in the comments. I want to know. ;)


End file.
